


(I love you) never felt like any blessing

by fitz_y



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: kink_bingo, Future Fic, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Male Slash, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitz_y/pseuds/fitz_y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur deals with his hurt after discovering Lancelot and Gwen together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I love you) never felt like any blessing

**Author's Note:**

> Canon, future!fic for my [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) square “whipping/flogging”. I owe my amazing beta, [](http://yllenk.livejournal.com/profile)[**yllenk**](http://yllenk.livejournal.com/) endless cupcakes for the quick late-night beta she turned around on this. All remaining mistakes are very much my own. Also a huge thanks to the peeps at [](http://pornspiration.livejournal.com/profile)[**pornspiration**](http://pornspiration.livejournal.com/) for joining me in a Porn Frenzy this week!

Arthur swung, hefting the sword with the force of his whole torso, yanked it free so he could drive at the armored cross again. His shoulder muscles burned, under chainmail, the sweat plastered his shirt to his skin; but it wasn’t enough. Arthur could not go to him yet. Not while the image of his naked back—perfectly muscled, powerful, dusky skin—heaving over Gwen’s body still burned hot behind his eyes, still twisted low in his gut, still pulsed heavy in his cock.

Arthur pitched himself at the practice dummy with quick, sharp jabs. It wouldn’t do to kill his best knight. Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he thought of the quiet way Lancelot watched him around the campfire on chilled nights, of the warm press of his thigh against Arthur’s when they shared a tankard, of the sight of him kneeling to receive knighthood. He tossed the sword to the dry ground, tensed his jaw and neck muscles so hard they seized up, and crashed into his target, pounding it on both sides with his fists, pulling his punches just enough to prevent breaking his knuckles. Exhaling through his nose, breathing his sweat stench back in, he turned on his heel and marched from the practice ground.

The castle halls echoed with emptiness. The servants knew better than to get in his way right now. All of them, excepting Merlin, of course. When Merlin loped over to him and evened his stride to keep pace, Arthur frowned.

“Arthur, what are you going to do to him?” Merlin’s voice was screwed tight, high in his throat, clipped and Arthur could not look at him.

“I’m not going to kill him, if that’s what you’re asking.” Arthur stared straight ahead as he marched through the bare hallways towards the dungeons.

“And Gwen?”

Arthur cracked his knuckles. “Despite what you may think, Merlin,” he drawled, “I am not going to kill my own wife.”

Merlin blew out a long breath. “Good, because I thought . . . . well . . . some of your advisors, the men left from Uther’s day, might want her punished.”

“And of course that hadn’t already occurred to me, _Mer_ lin.”

“I thought maybe it hadn’t, no,” he responded with his usual brightness.

They had reached stairs that curved down to the dungeons; Arthur drew to a halt. “Merlin,” he snapped his head to stare into Merlin’s wide, blue eyes. “Leave me now.”

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Arthur.” He was babbling. “You might get too angry. I don’t want . . . Lancelot hurt.”

“You think I can’t control myself?” Arthur pitched his voice low, drawing the words out slowly, pushing down on the chaos straining out of him, balling his fists at his sides.

Merlin shrugged and looked away. “Look, Arthur, I understand you’re hurt. I _do_ understand.”

“You understand. Oh really?” Arthur thought about the easy way Merlin had folded his lanky limbs into Gwaine’s lap the other night at the tavern; he thought about the lump of Merlin’s Adam’s apple as his neck stretched back so his head could rest against Gwaine’s shoulder, about the sight of his fingers twisting with Gwaine’s where they fiddled absentmindedly with Merlin’s belt buckle. He thought about Gwaine’s rolling laughter that sounded through the night from his and Merlin’s tent when they were on campaign. He thought about the cheerful glee that bounced out of Merlin’s voice whenever he said Gwaine’s name.

“No, Merlin, you don’t understand,” he bit out. “You don’t understand the responsibilities I have to my people. I’ve been . . . cuckolded,” the words almost choked him on the way out. “My advisors know it. The people in this castle know it. So Lancelot must be punished. Now get out of my sight.”

He shoved his shoulder against Merlin’s and stomped down the stone stairs, pleased by the sounds his thick leather soles made. The guards were quickly dismissed, and Arthur stood alone at the arched entrance to the dungeons.

Lancelot was kneeling, hands behind his back, half-turned towards the wall, eyes downcast, thick brown hair falling into his eyes. The image of him, motionless, defeated, waiting, hit Arthur like a fist to the chest, winding him. But only for a moment did his steps falter.

More quietly, now, Arthur stepped over to the sturdy cabinet by the guard’s station. He unlocked it, considering his options. Nothing drawn-out, nothing permanent, nothing public. Shaming Lancelot before all of Camelot would be but shaming himself for having elevated a commoner to his best knight, for not controlling his wife. And yet . . . his hand reached for the sturdy leather handle . . . and yet Lancelot needed to be reminded of how lowly he had indeed once been. If not for Arthur, would he not still be eking out his existence sweating and battling in a cage, sport for other men’s entertainment? A fighting dog and nothing more? Arthur tightened his grip on the leather, curled the tail carefully, lovingly around his other hand. Yes. An instrument used on a slave. An instrument used on a thief. On a traitor. On a deserter. Was his man not all of those things? Did they not need to be ripped into his skin? Did he not need to be reminded to whom he belonged? Whom he had betrayed?

Lancelot didn’t raise his head at Arthur’s heavy footfalls, at the metallic rasp of the key in the lock to his cell, nor at the jarring scrape of the solid barred door. The polite response to this sight would have been telling him to rise, looking him in the eye, man to man. But Arthur had never liked being polite. Not when he could avoid it. He stopped short behind Lancelot, spread his fingers over the down-turned angle of his neck, felt his skin, warm and clammy under his palm, heard his soft surprised inhale. Neither spoke and the subtle stench of the cell wafted up to him—stale sweat, the sweet hay in the corner, faded leavings of other prisoners. So many men and women had been held here over the years, good men, good women—Gwen, Merlin, Gaius, Uther, Lancelot himself, in what felt like another lifetime. Needlessly they had been imprisoned.

“During Uther’s reign, these dungeons were means for his own personal, and at times, rather petty revenge,” he was proud of himself for keeping his voice so low and calm, despite the stabbing ache in his chest, urging him to strike out at Lancelot, to avoid speaking and just pound on him as hard as he could. “Whenever someone insulted him, questioned him, he simply tossed them in here.” His thumb pressed into the tendon on the side of Lance’s neck, traced it slowly. The words came so easily, too easily. “And when I became king, I promised myself I would be different, I would be just and fair, and _never_ be selfish, proud, never act on personal grievances. Never be my father.”

He swallowed, watched the muscle in Lance’s stubbled jaw pulse once, twice. “And until this day, I can say I have been that man.” He paused, inhaled. Lancelot had to see that it was not just his marriage, his queen, his wife that he had insulted. “Why did _you_ have to be the one to make me fall? Why you, my best knight, _my_ man? You used to inspire me to be better, Lancelot,” he confessed tightly, the name feeling soft and right on his tongue. “And now look what you’ve done to me.” Gently, controlling the force of his own grip, he exerted pressure on Lancelot’s neck, tightening his hold, digging his fingers in until the skin around them turned white.

He dropped his hand and stepped away. “Turn away from the wall, but stay on your knees, and look at me, Sir Lancelot.”

Head bowed, Lancelot shuffled awkwardly, shifting so he knelt directly in front of Arthur, torchlight dancing over his dark hair. Something flared up hot and needy in Arthur at the sight of Lancelot there below him, lips so close to Arthur’s clothed cock. Lancelot kept his head down.

“I said, look at me,” Arthur bit out. Leaning down, he cupped his fingers under Lancelot’s jaw and forced his chin up, what he found there made him want to stumble back. Brown eyes near black in the dim light, Lancelot looked at him with pain, open and bare for all to see; he watched Arthur intently, not looking away, not blinking. His eyes did not even flicker over to look at the heavy leather weight in Arthur’s hand.

“Permission to speak, Sire,” he rasped, finally, his voice coming out of his throat like it had been raked over hot coals.

Arthur nodded, falling into his dark stare, not able to look away.

“In all my time at Camelot, this is the worst thing I have ever done, worse than forging a claim to the nobility, worse than lying to you and your father those many years ago. The worst. I do not expect forgiveness. I do not expect kindness. I know you must punish me for it. I just wish that the punishment could expunge the deed.” His full bottom lip compressed into a tight line and he swallowed perceptibly. “Do with me what you must, Sire.”

Arthur inhaled sharply and backhanded him across the cheekbone, snapping away Lancelot’s unwavering gaze, just so he didn’t have to see it anymore.

Lancelot kept his head turned away where Arthur had slapped it. Even in this, as in everything else, Lancelot excelled at taking direction, he truly was Arthur’s best man. The thought settled under Arthur’s skin, trickled down to his belly, loosening the tight coil there. Lancelot knew he needed this. Lancelot knew he deserved to be punished. But Arthur wasn’t going to make this any easier on him.

“At least, in this, you know your place, Lancelot. Rise and strip naked. You won’t be needing your clothes for this kind of punishment.” He deserved to take the punishment naked, as he had committed the crime against Arthur’s trust naked, with nothing to cover his humiliation.

Eyes fixed on the ground, the strong features of his face expressionlessly blank, Lance rose, supporting himself against the wall, most probably unable to feel anything below the dull ache in his knees. From personal experience Arthur knew one could only kneel on cold stone for so long without discomfort. He thought of the pain and numbness spiking through Lancelot. Good. His tunic he removed swiftly, laying it on the dirty straw.

Darting a glance to Arthur before staring again at the dirty ground, he untied and kicked off his breeches, standing in only his short braies, an off-white contrast to his flawless amber-brown skin, to the black hairs that swept down his chest, arrowed toward his groin. Arthur wanted to map the territory of that skin with his hands, mark his name into it, lay claim to his wayward man, drag him back.

In the torchlight, Lancelot hunched slightly, letting his thick dark hair dangle in front of his downcast eyes, letting his strong shoulders slope, his hands fold in front of him. He waited.

It was all wrong—the calm etched into his skin, the quiet submission. If he could await this punishment so stoically, then why had he not been able to stop himself with her?

Propelled by this thought, Arthur crossed the space left between them, only angered even further when Lancelot did not look up as he closed in on him.

“You wretched, wretched bastard.” He spat out the words as he gripped Lancelot by the shoulders, trapping the handle of the whip between his palm and the warm flesh of Lancelot’s arm. Biting his lip, Lancelot’s chest heaved with deep inhales, surely he must be warring with his fighter’s instincts, to let Arthur manhandle him so.

What else would Lancelot let him do? Would he not defend himself if Arthur did decide his life was forfeit? Or if Arthur chose to take his body as punishment, doing to him what he had done to Gwen, but more brutally? Showing him that he no longer deserved the title of Knight of the Realm, that he was truly no better than an animal, unable to control his urges? Taking from him by force what Gwen had given so freely? Shoving him down on all fours and using him like a dog uses its bitch? Wrapping his hands around Lancelot’s hipbones, crashing against him, surging inside his tight hole, emptying himself into him, feeling all that bulky muscle underneath him. Heat twisted through his core at the thought, his sudden desire so sharp that it nearly stole all the air from his lungs.

Growling, he crowded against Lancelot, forcing Lancelot to turn away from him, tilting him into the dank wall, so that his hands flew up to prevent himself from crashing face-first into it. “Stay,” Arthur commanded, his voice low and just barely steady.

Down Lancelot’s curved spine ran the slightest tremor, but he stayed where Arthur had put him: feet planted hip-width apart, muscled back an angled line toward the wall, palms bracing against it, head hanging low so he was once again staring at the ground. He held himself perfectly still.

Arthur stepped back, gripping the handle so tightly that his short nails dug into the flesh of his palm. He inhaled, exhaled, felt the throb in his groin, the wrenching ache in his chest, the tightness in his throat. He had wanted so much from Lancelot. He still did.

He looked down at the weapon in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. One of the many weapons he was trained in, the thin short whip felt familiar to his grip. Like a sword or a mace, it was an extension of his will, of him.

Flicking his wrist, the whip lashed out almost lazily, hissing through the air, and landing on the white cloth of Lancelot’s braies, tearing a wide horizontal rip. Shoulders locked, arms straight in front of him, Lancelot did not react, holding his body still for Arthur.

Here, now, in this, he was his to carve his name into. The tip of the whip cut through the air again and again; Arthur watched in fascination as he slowly drew blunt red lines on Lancelot’s skin, calling blood to just under the surface of his shoulders and upper back. Once or twice Lancleot shivered, but his muscles remained clenched, just the tiniest of flinches and twitches in his back and the in and out of breath breaking his motionlessness.

“Not bad,” Arthur said begrudgingly. At least Lancelot was taking it like a man.

Shifting his grip, he aimed lower, now, as he slid into a faster rhythm, all his focus zeroing in on the expanse of flesh before him. He slashed the whip’s tip into the fabric of Lancelot’s braies over and over, painting brighter red lines over the flesh of his buttocks, shredding the cloth there. Lancelot’s inhales became sharp, ragged sounds, yet his back, Arthur’s canvas, remained a taut collection of nearly motionless lines.

For years now, Lancelot’s body and sword has been Arthur’s; he’d given his muscle, breath, and bone to Arthur as if it were Arthur’s right, as if Arthur did not even have to ask. It was his, Arthur thought, as he paused, looked at the tatters of Lancelot’s braies. He stepped closer, so his chest was only a breath’s space away from the heat of Lancelot’s marked, quickly-bruising back. If Lancelot’s body belonged to him, as his knight, then he deserved to see all of it, to punish all of it. Arthur closed his hands over Lancelot’s hips, felt the searing warmth of his skin, the firmness of his bones there, and suddenly, like a kick to the gut, Arthur was aware of the stabbing, hot need throbbing in his groin. He imagined Lancelot kneeling before him on all fours, patient and still, just like he was now, waiting for Arthur to take him, letting Arthur take him. Arthur closed his eyes, inhaled sharply, focusing on the warm skin under his hands, and then, opening his eyes, he yanked the remains of Lancelot’s undergarments from his hips.

“Step out of them.”

Lancelot bobbed a nod and did as he was told, shifting to kick the torn cloth away from him. He did not turn to look at Arthur. In this, at least, he knew his place.

Arthur stepped away, giving himself distance. Otherwise his hands would act of their own accord, reaching for and tugging Lancelot’s flushed back to him, hauling the heat of it against his own clothed chest, feeling its warmth seep through his clothing towards his skin, as if they were naked together.

“Your punishment’s not over yet.” He lashed the whip through the air next to Lancelot, watching it curve into a delicate, powerful arc.

“I . . . I wouldn’t expect it to be, Sire.” The words rumbled from low in Lancelot’s chest.

Now that he had him stripped bare, Arthur burned with the need to blanket the whole of his body with the sign of his whip. Over-handed, he began slowly again, the crack of the lash ringing out in the narrow cell as he traced curving lines, straight lines, crisscrossed lines into his upper back, over the shoulder blades, accelerating his strokes, running parallel to his spine, over his buttocks, down his thighs, digging into the muscle, deeper and deeper. And Lancelot was panting now, back trembling in a quick rhythm, the sound of air whizzing through his clenched teeth a sharp counterpoint to the hiss of leather through air, the sharp snap of its impact on his flesh.

Speed coursed through Arthur’s arm and into the whip, his muscles, his whole body warmed from within. As soon as the whip jerked across darkly bruising skin, it was dancing through the air again, landing once more; a storm of hisses and snaps sounding through the room, so loud Arthur wondered if it echoed through the empty stairwell, bled into the halls and corridors above.

Time dissolved around him and all that mattered was his aim, and the angry precise exposition he was writing on Lancelot’s skin. Yet as warmth pulsed through his blood, his muscles, as his own breathing quickened to match the hurried heaving pace of Lancelot’s, something ice cold and certain solidified inside his chest, behind his eyes, and there, amidst the tempest of perfectly-aimed blows, of cracks and thuds ripping the air, he felt that same razor-sharp calm that settled over him in battle, that familiar hyper-awareness were there was no time, only actions and reactions, where there was no space, only the contortions of bodies against bodies, weapons against weapons, where there was no future, no past, only the stretch of the present.

Did Lancelot feel it too? Where was he? Still in his own skin, still sensing the smarting strike of each mark rock through him? Was the pain a spreading inferno over his back, buttocks, and thighs? His stillness had decayed in keeping with the lash’s acceleration. His hissing, gulping breathing was ragged and uneven, his knees, the muscles in his thighs trembled, his weight shifted restlessly from side to side.

The whip sliced the air and his body jerked away with a shudder, his palms slipping up the wall, as he fell to rest on his forearms. How much more could he, Arthur’s best man, take?

“You’re doing so well,” the words tumbled softly out of Arthur before he could stop them. “Even in this, Lancelot, you are the best man. My best man.”

Lancelot let out a long, low groan, wrenched out of him by Arthur’s words; he arched his front into the wall, shifting so his reddened buttocks stuck out farther. Arthur lashed out and hit him there, over the splotched purpling skin of his arse, and Lancelot moaned a single word, “Sire.”

He could still take more. In the space of the next instant, the whip snapped across the back of his right thigh, again and again. Then his left. Heat raged in Arthur’s fingers, wrist, his upper arm. One last strike. He threw what was left of his anger, his shame, his want, his power into his muscles and the thin whip tore the air and ripped a long cut into Lancelot’s upper back, a straight line of blood drawn down the right side.

Lancelot yelped, a low, sobbing cry. At that sound, the broken howl of a wounded animal, Arthur hurled the whip to the ground, crowded against Lancelot, slowly, carefully enveloping him with his own body. Mindful of the thin stream of blood snaking down his bruised, inflamed, deep-red and purple back, Arthur stood behind him and closed his hands over Lancelot’s palms, gently tugging them from the wall, pulling him so his weight rested fully against Arthur’s chest. Tremors wracked his body as he slowly eased back against him, letting Arthur take him.

“Arthur,” he gulped, as though he were struggling to speak. “Thank you, Sire. Arthur. Thank you.”

“You’re still my best man, Lancelot.” Arthur sighed. He couldn’t think of him being anything else. Crouching, he lowered both of them to the dirty ground, adjusted so Lancelot rested on his side, his head in Arthur’s lap; he couldn’t even be bothered to care that Lancelot’s face lay so close to Arthur’s now half-hard cock. Breath, fingers, arm, thoughts suddenly quiet now, filled with the bone-deep satisfaction that follows battle, Arthur stared at Lancelot’s heaving chest, and the open-mouthed sigh of his lips, and the map of punishment on his back, Arthur’s signature.

Lancelot gulped air shakily for a few moments before his whole body stilled, and he began speaking again, in low, uneven tones. “Sire, you are my king, my lord, and I will follow you to the ends of the world and back. I would rather die a thousand deaths than let anything hurt you. If you must punish me more . . . I will accept that without complaint. . . . I love her, Sire, but I . . . you . . . you are my king. . . . I am yours. Do with me what you will; imprison me, break me, please. Kill me if it must be. Banish me.”

Arthur exhaled heavily, let himself run his fingers through Lancelot’s hair, soft under his fingertips, like he’d always imagined it would be.

“No.” He spoke quietly, just for the two of them. “It is done.”

He tipped his head back against the wall behind him. Lancelot had to be cleaned up, Gaius must be sent for, Arthur had to speak with Guinevere, with his advisors. Lancelot would be placed on probation, not allowed to train with the knights for a month, maybe two. But . . . later. Gently, he fingered the thick locks of Lancelot’s hair as he closed his eyes and let his breathing slow.


End file.
